


Por Una Cabeza

by AvaCelt



Series: Paradise Hearts [1]
Category: Professional Wrestling, 新日本プロレス | New Japan Pro-Wrestling
Genre: An astute explication of why Milano can't get a break, Angst and Humor, Attempt at Humor, Kayfabe Compliant, M/M, True Love, and why sanada is The Man, featuring the ingobernables being insufferable as PER usual, i gotchu fam, take yer romance hating ass elsewhere, this is a love story masquerading as crack, this is for all the milano fans who've been dying for a happy ending since birth, unconventional courtship ritual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-12-09 05:48:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11662878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaCelt/pseuds/AvaCelt
Summary: Courtship rituals don't come easily to the Ingobernables, so of course there's a kidnapping and spilled lasagna involved.





	1. Starry Night

**Author's Note:**

> Title of the fic is borrowed from Carlos Gardel's "Por Una Cabeza."

Milano knew there was something bad in the air even before he stepped out of his building for his routine walk. He'd experienced a particular kind of foreboding earlier in the day, and he dealt with it by letting one of his cousins know that he was coming around for the weekend. Whatever it was that was stalking him could kiss his precious Italian ass. After losing his livelihood, he'd learned to take his intuition's warnings to heart. His cousin had a nice, big farmhouse in Tuscany. He'd hide out there until his trepidation passed, and then he'd pick up where he left off at the next show.

His skin had stung when he touched his cold, ceramic coffee cup this morning. It was empty, left overnight to the ghouls of his past that haunted every inch of the penthouse that he lived in alone to this day. Mikeru had left him a long time ago, just like most of his former friends, so there was always a melancholia that hung over the furniture and appliances that bedecked the two-thousand-square-feet space. He used to be a charmer, after all. One could even say he was a god amongst men, but that would be a lie. Milano hadn't been much in almost ten years.

He lived on the outskirts of his city, close enough that he could hop on the expressway to go to work, but far enough that no one would care to venture out at three am to bother him. Yes, he enjoyed taking walks that late in the night. He had to “officially” be up at six, but the cool dead of night brought a sense of peace to his heart. It wasn't loud, there were barely any people out, and the only shops that were open were the twenty-four-hour convenience stores with their standard microwaveables and their twenty-year-old cashiers who had no idea who he was. Good, he thought. Nothing impressed him much these days, not even the collective gushes from people who seemingly remembered his former glory.

Speaking of gushing undesirables...

Milano snorted and pulled his coat tighter around his body. Seiya Sanada was six whole feet made of muscle and murder. Milano was a _noodle_ next to him, so he kept his distance, averted his gaze when the masked figure stared too hard in his direction, gave Sanada's Paradise Lock a haphazard thumbs up once in a while so Tetsuya Naito didn't try to murder him post-match, and generally minded his business. Starting a war with the Ingobernables while being in the ring was one thing. Starting a war with Los Ingobernables de Japon while _retired_ was a death sentence. Milano gulped. He may not have been as flamboyant and insufferable as he used to be ten years ago, but he really liked being able to wake up in the morning and have a hot cup of coffee. Milano liked living, so he kept out of their way.

Well, there was only so much a forty-year-old could do at the end of the day.

He smelled the screeching tires before anything else. His reflexes were still good, having kept his weight in line and his body in shape after he took the retirement card, but he wasn't fast _enough._ The bag went right over his head while his wrists were snapped up and duct-taped. He felt himself get hauled into the vehicle, and it was a good fifteen minutes of fast driving until he felt the duct tape snap and the hood come off.

Milano's eyes slowly adjusted to the scene and came upon the watchful gaze of one Tetsuya Naito. He wore a smug smirk, his hat pulled high on his head, his jeans as raggedy and greasy as his hair. His eyes slowly traveled to the driver's seat and saw Hiromu Takahashi at the helm. He was cruising them down a freeway towards god knew where. He wracked his brain trying to figure out if he'd done anything in the previous show that might have slighted the leader of the Ungovernables, but he could think of nothing. He gulped. At least he knew his intuition wasn't wrong. There was definitely something bad in the air, and it was the smell of Tetsuya Naito's unwashed hair. He internally recited a Hail Mary.

“Tranquilo, Milano-san,” chuckled the based demon in charge of the group of violent misfits. Milano kept his face blank. This shit wouldn't have flown if he'd stayed his ass in his apartment and drowned himself in cheap box wine, but no, he stepped out while his danger meter was at a record high and now he was a victim of a kidnapping.

“We're almost there,” sing-songed Takahashi from the front. The youngest of the Ingobernables gave Milano a dangerous smile from the front. Milano figured he was finally dead.

“Milano-san,” Naito pressed. “Seriously, relax. We can't have you looking too harried when we pull up to the place.” Naito smoothed Milano's collar and patted his hair flat. Milano stifled every urge to balk at the man.

“And what place might that be?” He asked, a slight shiver in his throat, but nothing more to indicate that he was ready to piss his pants and meet his Maker.

“A nice place!” Takahashi crowed from the front. “It took a lot of beatings to secure it, so we couldn't just _ask_ you to come, Milano-san, you could've said no and that would have been _bad._ ” Takahashi emphasized the 'bad' by letting the smirk slide off his face.

“Don't worry,” Naito piped up. “Sanada is the most normal one out of all of us, so he'll treat you real nice.”

That's when Milano's expression fell. The thought of being alone in the same room as Seiya Sanada pumped real fear into his heart and he almost passed out. Naito grasped his shoulders before he could descend into complete darkness, while Takahashi came to an abrupt stop. Milano almost slid out of Naito's grasp, but the man's grip was stronger than most. He urged Milano to turn around and look out the window, and when he did, he saw the entrance to the finest Italian restaurant in the district.

This time, Milano allowed himself to balk.

“Wha-”

“Just tranquilo, Milano-san,” Naito chuckled in his ear, “just tranquilo.”

And before Milano knew it, he was tossed out of the van, landed flat on his ass, and heard the van screech away before he could even get a good look at the exterior. He scratched his head and cursed his shitty luck before getting up. He brushed the dust off his coat and stared at the empty, but well-lit restaurant. It was bejeweled with the best money had to offer, glittering in the empty night like a lighthouse beacon to which Milano was a lonely ship. Back then, he could afford to eat here every week, but now, he was lucky if he had enough to land an appetizer and some bread after a _month's_ set of wages. Being a color commentator was an honest job, but it'd never rake in the kind of money he'd reaped working as a model in Milan.

And he could never, not even in his supermodel days, ever afford to buy out _the whole restaurant._ Los Ingobernables were scary folk, but _someone_ had to have dished out a few million for the chefs and the waitstaff. You could only threaten so many people until people started to willingly disappear off the map so that danger couldn't find them. Milano still had his date to Tuscany set, so he would be pulling a disappearing act soon enough, even if it was just for one weekend. He didn't get to enjoy the view for much longer as the waitstaff soon appeared and lined themselves alongside the entrance. After them came out the Bull, and that's when Milano knew he was fucked.

Seiya Sanada was in a cream colored slim-fit suit flecked with a gold accent, a lighter colored waistcoat tightened around his torso, and a crisp white shirt that splayed perfectly against his dark brown skin. Covering his head was a white Bull mask with two ivory horns, while brown Italian loafers covered his feet. _He_ looked like a god amongst men, not Milano Collection A.T., forty and still living in a near-empty penthouse he thankfully paid off long before his forced retirement. _This_ was what real power could buy- a bull's mask with real ivory horns and jewels encrusted into the base, and the ability to wrestle for thousands of people every day and not break a sweat.

Seiya Sanada stepped forward, and Milano passed out.

 

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You could call it a paradise lock.

There were few things in life that put the fear of God in Seiya's heart. Sometimes, his frustration got the best of him and he became sloppy with his work, but usually, he was very quick to take things for what they were and plan accordingly. He wasn't much for talking. It wasn't a slight against his opponents or his friends, but to put it simply, he didn't have much to say to begin with, so he didn't open his mouth. Things didn't phase him. People were the way they had always been, and he was just one more man living his life the way he deemed appropriate.

Maybe the stars weren't aligned, or maybe it was just shit luck, but the dojo never trained Seiya how to appropriately ask another man out on a date. So, on this fine day when the sun was ready to peek outside of of the clouds in a few hours, Seiya held his crush's head in his lap while Bushi drove them to the hospital. Evil sat in the front with the masked man, a pan of lasagna in his lap. It was quiet, as both Naito and Hiromu were coming in a different van, but the silence was a blessing. Bushi gave him a look of pity, while Evil just shook his head. It wasn't their fault. Seiya wanted to surprise his beloved, but he all he managed to do was trigger a fainting spell.

Maybe it was shit luck for never having learned how to appropriately date _anyone,_ or maybe it was karmic vengeance for turning down every nice man and woman that had every asked him out for a simple cup of coffee. It was uncanny. Seiya was a simple man who desired the simplest of comforts, who lived in a simple apartment with his bajillion cats and dogs that he loved with every fiber of his being and raised with love and care, and yet, he couldn't ask a simple color commentator on a simple date.

But it wasn't as if Milano was a simple man- no. Milano was everything _but_ simple, and maybe _that's_ why Seiya messed up, and maybe that's why Milano was out cold with his head on Seiya's lap instead of laughing and Seiya's dry jokes and holding Seiya's hand.

Seiya's chest hurt, his eyes downcast. It was only a date. They were supposed to enjoy a nice meal at a really nice restaurant, drink some really expensive wine, and get to know each other. Bushi was a trained waiter. He was going to bring in the main course and dessert. Evil was friends with a violinist who agreed to do a short number. Naito had threatened the restaurant owner for the keys and a free night with his chefs and waitstaff. Hiromu had designed the tablecloth. Things were supposed to be nice, wholesome, a testament of Seiya's love. Instead, the sun was about to come up, and Milano was dozing. Seiya wondered if people dreamed after they fainted. Was it just an accidental nap? Seiya wasn't sure, so he had asked Bushi to get the car and they'd left.

Milano was light in his arms. It had been a long time since he was in the ring, but even then, Seiya remembered how noodly he'd been. He wondered what it felt like to be in a ring with one of the best lightweight competitors in the industry. When he first felt drawn to the man, it was because of his dry wit and absurd dedication to a perpetually expressionless visage. He knew the man was a former wrestler, but he wasn't paying attention to Milano when Milano was still Milano Collection A.T. But after having caught his face in the light one too many times, Seiya did his research.

And Seiya fell in love.

Fast forward a year, and Seiya still didn't know how to start a conversation with anyone who wasn't a friend or opponent. Maybe he shouldn’t have listened to Naito, but it wasn't the Ingobernables' fault for dishing out weird advice because Seiya was a bit of a weirdo himself. He had his pick of any man and woman in the company who would have taken _him_ out on expensive dates, and yet he chose to go after the one man who probably wouldn't have batted an eyelash if a dead body ended up at his feet.

Or so Seiya thought. Milano had passed out within seconds of laying eyes on him. He gulped and touched the bull mask on his face. It cost roughly a million yen to get it made and fit for his head. Bushi had called in twelve favors and Evil had provided the name of the tailor who made the most comfortable mask straps in the business. Seiya didn't think a full-face skull mask would be appropriate for an Italian date. He really, _really_ tried his best, but it didn't work out.

Milano didn't move, and Seiya felt an emptiness spread in his chest.

* * *

Once upon a time, there was a boy who loved a boy, and his laughter was a question the boy wanted to spend his whole life answering. No, wait. Once upon a time, there was a boy who loved a _girl,_ and _her_ laughter was a question the boy wanted to spend his whole life answering.¹

But Milano wasn't a girl. Milano was a forty-year-old man who once had a modeling contract with hottest brand in the world, and he was a wrestler. He had an invisible dog named Mikeru, and he made way too much money for his own good. Then, one day, he was hit with a career-ending injury, and that was the end of that life.

For all intents and purpose, Nicole Krauss did _not_ write a book about a man falling in love with a man, but it was the history of love at the end of the day.² Maybe there was a man out there who loved him enough to spend the rest of his life looking for answers in Milano's smiles, but he doubted it. Sorta. The arms that held him were strong, much stronger than any man had ever held Milano in an embrace that wasn't meant to shatter his spine and pin him for good. No, this embrace was gentle, careful, almost _too_ careful. Milano inwardly huffed. He wasn't made of glass. If he could handle Tetsuya Naito trying to gouge his eyes out and kill him every other day, he could handle being carried like a man.

Sorta.

OK, so it was _so_ comfortable that Milano thought he could fall asleep again, but once the memories started coming together, he practically jumped out of his carrier's arms. Seiya Sanada was a strong man, and Milano barely made it an inch before his eyes sharply turned towards Milano. Milano balked, remembering that he was still being held hostage.

“Let me go,” he said evenly. He expected resistance, maybe a sneer, but Sanada just stared. He stared while the fogginess lifted from Milano's brain and he realized that they were in a hospital, and that Bushi and Evil were standing some feet away, averting their gaze. Sanada didn't say anything when a gurney rolled to a stop in front of him. Within seconds, Milano was plopped down on the crisp sheets while Bushi spoke softly with a nurse. Before he could get out another word, they rolled him away.

And Sanada didn't say a single word.

* * *

It took half an hour for them to finish their checkup and determine low blood pressure as the primary culprit for his fainting spell. That, and abject fear, but Milano didn't feel like releasing that kind of information to the public. He had a reputation to maintain, after all. The nurse took one more look at his chart, gave him a thumbs up, and asked if she should call a cab. Milano thought about it. The hospital was near the train station, and there was a direct stop a few blocks away from his building. He still had his wallet, his keys, a little bit of his dignity, so he politely refused and left the nurse to her business.

He went to the checkout station and signed his name on a few forms and began his trek home. He made it six feet until he realized the entirety of the Los Ingobernables de Japon were in varying stages of sleep in the waiting room near the patient exit. He and Sanada made eye contact almost instantly.

Tetsuya Naito was snoring, head rested against Bushi's shoulder, who himself was in that desolate state between cold sleep and the painful awareness of his continued existence. Evil was dozing, but his body was stiff, as if he was ready to jump at a moment's notice, and Takahashi was all but faceplanting into his phone, drool escaping his weary mouth as sleep began to overtake him.

Only Sanada was wide awake, and that seemed to be enough. His mask was on the floor, and weirdly, a pan of what seemed like lasagna was spilled on the floor next to it. He guessed Naito had dropped it, but since they were an unruly pack, it could have also been a purposeful spill. Milano didn't feel like questioning it. He was tired and hungry, and he could use some sleep.

“Coffee?” Sanada asked.

Milano blinked, and for the life of him, he didn't know why he said yes, but he did.

* * *

“Evil gave the pan to Naito, and then Naito dropped it, but the janitors were too afraid of my mask to clean it up so... we kinda just sat there with spilled lasagna on the floor. I did take off my mask eventually, but I guess the janitors were too afraid.”

They dawdled next in a coffee stand outside of the train station. The brew was fresh, but it wasn't strong, nor did it taste good. But, coffee was coffee, and Milano deserved his hot cup. “Who put you up to it?”

“The lasagna?” Sanada asked innocently. Milano gave him a judgmental look and he cleared his throat. “The date would be Naito's idea.”

“You know he's tried to kill me before, right?”

Sanada almost cringed. “He wasn't trying to _kill_ you, he was... teasing.”

Milano rolled his eyes. “Uh huh.”

“He would never try to hurt you.”

“OK.”

“I swear it.”

“Hmm.”

They fell into an awkward silence. The first leg of office workers were beginning to filter to and from the train station. Milano looked at his watch. It was almost five am. He didn't have any show to commentate, so he figured he'd sleep the stress away, but Sanada's aura was persistent even when his words weren't. For some reason, there was no ill will attached to the offer, and though Milano was still deathly afraid of the Japanese chapter of the Ungovernables, he figured he might as well _try_ to save face before disappearing for good. It was just a trip to Tuscany over the weekend, but he might just not cower inside a farmhouse the entire time.

“You couldn't have just... asked?” Milano asked after about ten minutes of nothing but the city's sounds.

Sanada took a sip of his brew. “I didn't know how.”

“And kidnapping me ended up being the best possible course of action?”

He sighed. “We're not the wisest bunch.”

Milano couldn't help but smirk. “No, you're not.”

If Milano was as quick as he used to be, he would have noticed immediately that Sanada's eyes never quite left his face, not even when he pretended to avert his gaze. It took a few seconds for Milano to notice, but he did, and when he did, something bloomed in his chest.

“That was... a nice gesture. You could have executed it better, but it was a nice try.” Milano didn't know why he was encouraging Sanada like this was his first time taking someone out on a date. There was a no way someone as absurdly handsome as him had never been on a date, especially not at thirty. He was old enough to be married with several children.

Right?

“I've never taken anyone out before,” Sanada admitted. “I'll try harder next time.”

Milano's jaw dropped. “You're thirty.”

“Twenty-nine,” Sanada corrected him. “I've been busy. I used to travel extensively, and I've never exactly had the time to date.”

“And now you do?”

Sanada shrugged. “If someone's worth the time, you make it.”

“So there wasn't anyone worth making time for before?”

“No, Milano-san, there wasn't.”

Milano knew he should blush, maybe crack a big smile and write down his number on the back of the coffee's receipt, but Milano knew more than anyone else that first love was always the hardest love.

It was also the first heartbreak.

“I'm grateful, Sanada, but you have your career to look after, don't you?”

Sanada didn't miss a beat. “I'm looking after it just fine, if I do say so myself.” The suits had notified him that he was scheduled to participate in the G1 mere days ago, though the tournament was still months away. He'd made a significant amount of buzz in both the corporate sphere as well as the public one. Fans both domestic and abroad were cheering for him now. It was amazing, really. There was nothing Sanada _couldn't_ do now, not with the world behind him and rooting for him every step of the way.

And yet, Milano resisted. “Someone like you will need to put in 200% going forward. You don't need anyone holding you back.”

Sanada put his hand over Milano's, a gesture that was as sweet as it was rebellious against all the odds. “If I thought spending time with you was a burden, I wouldn't have tried. But if this is what makes you happy, then it's OK.” He gently squeezed Milano's knuckles and stepped away from the coffee stand. Milano didn't even notice the van until it was a few yards away. Takahashi waved from the driver's seat, and next to him was Tetsuya Naito with his hat pulled low, but Milano knew the asshole was wide awake underneath. “Goodbye, Milano-san.”

Milano nodded and then looked down at his lukewarm cup of coffee. He thought he saw himself, old and tired, not nearly as handsome as he used to be, and definitely just as alone as he was the day he retired.

If he shed a few tears, he didn't notice.

* * *

But this wasn't one of those depressing love stories where vicious tyrants declared blood feuds against happy exes. It also wasn't a love story about a dying elder who could never truly cement his place in this world,³ but it was a story that had a little bit of regret and a whole lot of self-reflection. It wasn't the best love story in the book, but it wasn't, by any means, a bad one. It was a little uncanny, sure, maybe even a bit out of the blue, but it was still a love story. If the secret behind true happiness was in the smile of the person you loved the most, then Milano had to admit, it was one of the best kept ones. He thumbed through his copy of “The History of Love,”⁴ and tried to find where the boy fell in love with the girl long enough to devote himself to her smile. In the story of his own life, he tried to figure out if he ever truly loved anything more than his time as a professional wrestler, as a star, as an icon.

He realized that he did- himself. He loved himself enough to wake up in the morning for a cup of coffee, and still loved himself enough to shower, to keep fit, to go to work, and to come home in time to catch his evening dramas. At forty, he was a little faster than most, but still slow enough to catch the breeze and just take in things for what they were. It had been a long time since he was pursued by someone that handsome, much longer since someone had pursued him in earnest. And it wasn't like he had money to throw around. He worked professional wrestling's equivalent of a desk job, and he wasn't even unionized. There was no guarantee they'd need him at tomorrow's show, or even in tonight's. Things happened, and you either had to move on, or risk losing yourself in the past. The first few years had been rough. He hadn't succumbed to the drink or the drugs, but he was tempted.

But there was only so much you could lose until you refused to lose anything more. There was a time when Milano realized that he loved breathing, loved waking up in the morning to the early rays of light. It wasn't a spontaneous thing, of course. He always knew he was too petty to die, but once he realized it for real, he was able to crack a genuine smile once in a while. And yet, in the midst of living, he'd forgotten how to share his life and his space with others. He had friends, of course, but he tried to remember the last time he had a long time lover. He hadn't even bought another pet after he stopped pretending Mikeru was real. There was a lot wrong with Milano Collection A.T's life, but none more than the fact that he was, quite frankly, a moron at the worst possible times.

After all, who would reject a man as beautiful as Seiya Sanada and still claim they had their senses intact? Milano cursed his abrasiveness, but didn't fret for long. Sanada cast the first die, so now it was Milano's turn. G1 was a stone's throw away, and he knew that that Sanada had meant every word he'd said. Milano was, at the end of the day, someone worth making time for.

* * *

Milano wasn't set to commentate on the first night of B Block matches, but he was still at the venue. He watched the show from the back, a cap on his head and a dusty jacket on his shoulders. Sanada won. It felt nice. He walked out before the next match started and went to work.

Los Ingobernables were a tired bunch after the show ended. Takahashi was in charge of driving again, but before Sanada could disappear with his friends, Milano caught his attention with a wave. It was creepy, he knew, but if the Ungovernables could execute a kidnapping, then they could handle some dude in a ratty baseball cap and a jacket that belonged to Milano's grandfather.

Sanada's mohawk was gone. A beanie covered his freshly washed hair, his tired eyes sullen but alert. Yet, as soon as he realized the weirdo calling to him was Milano, his gaze visibly brightened.

“Milano-san?”

Milano waved again. “Busy?”

Sanada turned back at Los Ingobernables, who slowly filtered out of the back of the venue and into Takahashi's van. He turned back to Milano. “We're going out for fried chicken and beer.”

Milano had his hands in his jacket pocket. He crossed his fingers and internally recited a Hail Mary. “Do you think you could spare me a dinner instead?”

Sanada didn't miss a beat. “Yes.”

Milano nodded, refusing to let a cheesy smile erupt on his lips, but his blush couldn't be helped. “There's a nice place a few towns away. We can take the train there.”

Sanada didn't hesitate. He quickly typed something into his phone, shoved the device into his pocket, and walked right up to Milano. Milano inhaled sharply. During the match, Sanada had worn a variant of the mask he had worn back at the restaurant. Milano wondered why he hadn't worn the skull gear. He also wondered why he hadn't worn the original mask, but all those questions disappeared into smoke when he looked into Sanada's eyes.

They were soft. For a man twice as large as him, and three times as powerful, they were the softest eyes Milano had gazed into in a long time.

“Where are we going?”

“Huh?”

“Dinner, Milano-san. Where to?”

Milano cleared his throat and averted his gaze. Was this what it felt like to witness real beauty in the flesh? His whole career as a model and a wrestler, he believed beauty was part birth and part achievement, but Sanada? Sanada was a bat-swinging maniac who went by Cold Skull in his matches, and yet he was the most beautiful being Milano ever had the fortune of being next to. Milano had seen manufactured beauty and natural beauty plenty of times, but never anything so real and so raw as an exhausted Seiya Sanada after a match against his own brother.

Milano could almost kiss him, but he had a reputation to maintain. He cleared his throat and led the way towards the train station. The fell into an easy rhythm, sifting through the last dregs of the night crowd, engaging in small talk and discussing the night's revelry. Milano kept one eye on the path, and one eye on Sanada.

“You could have spoken to me before the match,” Sanada teased him while they waited for the train to arrive.

“And give you butterflies in your stomach before you took on your stablemate? Can't have you losing points this early in the tournament, Sanada. Also, I don't want Naito to break into my house and set my things on fire.”

Sanada cracked a genuine smile and something warm and absurdly gooey bloomed and spread in Milano's chest.

“So, about that Paradise Lock on Evil,” Milano started coquettishly. “Did you think of me?”

“I'm always thinking about you,” Sanada said sincerely.

Milano balked, a mini heart attack erupting in his chest. “Seriously, man. Easy on the flirtation.”

Sanada lightly punched his shoulder. “You're not that old.”

“Have you never actually been on a date? You're thirty!”

“Are you really Italian?”

“How dare you-”

“Train's here.”

“Fine, but this isn't over.”

Milano huffed and got in, Sanada following suit. It was a loud night, spectators from the show and salarymen littered the platform and inside of the train. Milano found two empty seats and pointed them out. They plopped down and fell into a steady silence as the train took them to their destination. They didn't talk again until they were seated at the small Italian joint that served excellent lasagna, but somewhere along the way, Sanada's hand had slipped into his jacket pocket and tenderly caressed this fingers, as if they were made of silk and lace. It wasn't a condescending touch, but it was careful, so careful that Milano knew that it was a gesture of affection, one that was as timeless as it was gentle.

He was screwed, that was for sure. His heart was in a cage, and his jailor was none other than a rising star in New Japan Pro Wrestling. He cursed himself for even _thinking_ of such a pun, but the second it came into existence, his brain broke.

He looked at Sanada's tired features and beautiful brown eyes, so soft and gentle, so alive. His heart was a mess. Worse, you could say that it was in paradise, a paradise where someone loved you enough to hold your hand in a crowded train after wrestling one's own friend. And the cage was locked, the cage where paradise lived was locked by Sanada's own soft hands, and Milano found that he didn't quite care.

Sanada gave him a small smile and squeezed his hand, and Milano, with all the warmth in his heart, smiled back.

* * *

 

**FIN**

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¹ : A beautiful quote borrowed from Nicole Krauss's "The History of Love."  
> ² : What I believe to be a skillful insertion of the novel's title into the general flow of the story.  
> ³ : The actual super-short summary of the novel, "The History of Love."  
> ⁴ : Actual namedrop of the title.
> 
> What I'm saying is that if you ever want to read a romance novel with a lot of sadz, please read Nicole Krauss's "The History of Love."


End file.
